


Olympos

by randomicicle



Category: Bandage (2010), Tatta Hitotsu no Koi
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Podfic Available, Podfic Length: 20-30 Minutes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-05 11:40:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomicicle/pseuds/randomicicle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I want to write you a song,” Natsu comments. He does not acknowledge the question, but shuffles his feet. Hiroto knows this is only another evasive manoeuvre.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Olympos

**Author's Note:**

> **Written for** : [Paddy](http://paddyabroad.livejournal.com/), @ [JE Holiday Exchange 2011](http://je-holiday.livejournal.com/) (originally posted [here](http://je-holiday.livejournal.com/126439.html))
> 
>  **Notes** : Gorgeous podfic by [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/411833). Must also say Lauren was a great handholder, brainstormer, and source of Natsu info/meta. Without her, I wouldn't have been able to get this done ♥

Natsu asks, “Who are you thinking of?” when Hiroto stares at a small boat drifting aimlessly near the dock. Hiroto sighs, asks him what is that song he sings all the time in response.

“I want to write you a song,” Natsu comments. He does not acknowledge the question, but shuffles his feet. Hiroto knows this is only another evasive manoeuvre.

“I want to overwrite the one in my head.”

Hiroto snorts. Throws a rock into the water. It’s late. So late it’s almost too early.

 

 

*

 

 

The light bulb flickers where it hangs from the ceiling, weak yellow light falling over them. Hiroto sighs, slumped against the coarse wall. There are tiny wood splinters that could burrow under his skin. They don’t. He is thick skinned; his hands are rough and calloused.

He tries not to let his face rub against it though.

Natsu taps his fingers on the wall behind him, hums under his breath as he pulls his pants up. He is unabashedly shameless, leaning back on the wooden cabinets; they shake under his weight, but he’s past caring by now. He follows Hiroto’s fingers as they light up a cigarette, sighs, and sneaks his own pack out of his pocket. Between those long shaky fingers, it takes a while for it to spark and flicker into life.

There is only silence around them. Paper-thin until it is filled with Natsu’s voice; with the muffled noise from outside, and Hiroto’s own heartbeat thumping against his ribcage. It raises above them, this fort made of clinging blankets only halfway done, barely supported on the edges. Then, Natsu is actually singing.

Hiroto can’t understand the lyrics.

 

 

*

 

 

The wind against his face is soothing; the smoke that swirls in front of him distracting. Hiroto’s mind is blissfully blank. _This_ is his quiet time.

 

(Sometimes though Hiroto dreads the empty silence)

 

*

 

 

He seldom performs in this little club, nostalgic and raw songs that fill the place with melancholy tunes and breathy words. Hard not to notice, the notes coming harshly from his throat. He so unabashedly latches himself onto a stool later, asking for a drink, that Hiroto is unable to _not_ notice him.

It is one of many jobs, he says, and Hiroto almost sees himself in him. Only weeks later he notices it is not really a job, and this man comes back more and more often, speaks to him over and over again. It is good, to hear him singing some nights, the words slurred when they don’t have music threading through them, and Hiroto sometimes entertains the thought of them being solely his, those tunes that sound so intimate and yet they’re not.

“It’s a good excuse to see you,” Natsu replies one night, when Hiroto asks. It is one of the rare times they actually _talk_. He is in a talkative mood; calls from Ren tend to do that.

Hiroto is amused. He takes another drag of his cigarette, and allows Natsu to join him behind the bar, crouched underneath it. His supervisor doesn’t notice.

Natsu has his eyes closed when Hiroto turns to him. His head is nodding to the music.

Hiroto wonders if wherever he is at in that moment is better than the sleek linoleum floor of this club.

 

 

*

 

 

The first time Natsu drags Hiroto to his house, Hiroto knows.

They swap surnames much later, over a couple of beers and two packs of cigarettes, while Hiroto sits on Natsu’s broken couch, and Natsu plays guitar on his bed, looking up at the ceiling, waiting for the beer they had bought to cool so they could keep piling empty cans at the foot of the bed.

Hiroto puts out another cigarette, eyes the ashtray filled with butts and ashes, and lets out a deep sigh. Natsu is not listening; his eyes are closed, fingers strumming on his guitar. They don’t see Hiroto get up; he says nothing as Hiroto leaves.

The song stays in Hiroto’s head for days.

 

 

*

 

 

His silence is compromised now, relentlessly attacked by a wave of white noise. It takes Hiroto _weeks_ to acknowledge it.

 

 

*

 

 

It is not hard to spot him, perched like a huge bird on the other side of the bar, wings fluttering restlessly despite being tightly pressed to his back. Hiroto observes him, uncorks another bottle, and pours two different liquors into one tall glass, the green and blue swirling into a bright mix of both.

He looks calm, a little vacant. There is _something_ about him, something Hiroto can’t quite put his finger on yet, nor could he do it the very first day he sat on the stool right before the tip jar and leaned over to pour himself a drink when Hiroto wasn’t fast enough to get there first.

His hair curls out of his hoodie, dark and unruffled, and in the dimly lit place, his eyes are hidden from view.

The cigarette gets tapped several times against the ashtray. The last remainders of burnt nicotine roll out, but the tapping continues. Natsu isn’t there.

He really isn’t anywhere.

“Oi,” Hiroto calls, hands falling hard on the bar. It calls his attention; there are eyes under that hoodie now, and they aren’t vacant. There is no more cigarette tapping on the ashtray.

“Another round?”

His dark hair sways when Natsu rolls his head. But his fingers push the shot glass near Hiroto, and Hiroto lights the new cigarette that is on its way to Natsu’s lips.

Behind the sudden swirl of smoke, Natsu leans forward. His eyes shine for a moment; a second too short for Hiroto to really register.

“ _You_ ,” Natsu says. “Who are you?”

Hiroto knows “Hiroto,” isn’t the answer, but he says so anyway.

 

 

*

 

 

Hiroto only needs one silent warning to look back to the man chasing him up and down the bar, jumping between stools and making conversation by himself, answering and questioning and rambling above the loud bass filling the club. Hiroto turns around, tries to block him. Natsu is relentless with the several shots he downed earlier.

“Fine,” Hiroto snarls. The grin on the other’s face is smug, obnoxious. It twists something inside of him. “Free drinks if you let me _work_.”

Natsu clicks his tongue, thinks about it. Hiroto can already see the grin curling, agreeing, and he almost sighs in relief when he turns away and is not followed this time.

When Hiroto comes back from the back room, Natsu is staring at a girl next to him, one that sits gracefully on the stool beside him. Hiroto hears it, low and delicate and strumming against the wooden boards.

Natsu is singing, and Hiroto stands closer to be able to listen.

 

 

*

 

 

Natsu breathes the music Hiroto doesn’t understand.

 

(Hiroto never acknowledges Natsu’s music is the only one he _feels_ )

 

*

 

 

There are no stars that night. The sky stretches like a blank dark canvas ready to morph away from that pale hue it currently has. It doesn’t change at all. And if Hiroto were able to see, he would notice how it dissolves into the sea, horizons that aren’t there, all dark dullness and no reflections in the water because there is nothing to reflect.

Natsu moves again, and Hiroto groans. The sky gets blurry, a little distant, and thaws against the ceiling of Natsu’s car. The leather squeaks under him and his eyes close; Natsu’s hair tickles his cheekbones as he claws at the door. He smells of alcohol and tobacco and cologne, as brash and rare as Natsu himself. There is something heartbreakingly intimate in the hands cupping his jaw, and the lips pressed against his, but Hiroto can’t feel it, can’t tell if those are _his_ or _theirs_ , and if Natsu means the little nothings whispered as he thrusts into him, as he caresses his hipbone with his thumbs.

It is there though, toe-curling and thrilling, because Natsu knows, he does, and Hiroto actually likes it. There is that small touch on his waist, the light laughter against his shoulder when he shudders, and how he grasps Natsu’s waist to feel more, have him closer, and tangle his fingers in his hair because it _keeps_ tickling his cheekbones. The song loops inside his head, bumps against the windows, and Hiroto would’ve laughed but it gets lost in the way Natsu takes his breath away with open-mouthed rushed kisses and fingers that dig deeper against his skin, thrusts that become faster and heavier, and Hiroto arches, curls, gasps with a choked moan that never really abandons his throat.

He can still see the sky outside, and listen to the song looping inside Natsu’s head.

Natsu smokes. He always does, especially after sex, while he is still warm and breathless. He is sitting on his ankles, pants open and shirt discarded. Hiroto doesn’t get up, but extends a hand and steals a cigarette. He almost chuckles when Natsu leans over to lower the window, watches the slightly fogged up glass start to clear. The music comes muffled from the club; it mars and distorts Natsu’s song.

Hiroto sighs.

It’s tricky to get his pants on when Natsu decidedly takes up most of the available space and keeps smoking leisurely, not making any effort to get off him. It certainly takes Hiroto no second thoughts to get ready, and get _out_.

“Where are you going?” Natsu asks. His head is out of the car; the wind messes up his hair.

It smells like the sea.

“Home,” he replies.

It takes Natsu’s car two tries to start, but Hiroto isn’t far. He walks slowly, feels the pebbles under his soles. The rough brick walls of that alleyway obscure the already shady path meant only for cars and stray cats.

“I can take you home,” Natsu yells.

It pulls a smile from his face. It’s not happy.

“Do you even know where that is?” Hiroto asks.

He doesn’t turn, doesn’t look back at Natsu behind the steering wheel. The night is chilly, cold, and there is nothing but dark sky above him. Natsu is still shirtless and stiff; hidden under his dark hair, he isn’t facing him either. His car has silently rolled beside Hiroto; he is more distant than before.

“Get in,” Natsu mutters.

Hiroto doesn’t.

 

 

*

 

 

Natsu doesn’t know where Hiroto’s home is.

 

Hiroto never bothers to explain.

(In truth, he doesn’t think Natsu would get it)

 

*

 

 

Natsu sometimes mutters lyrics under his breath, talks of a certain someone. Of _her_ and _him_ and LANDS, and Hiroto doesn’t know what to make of it. He still listens despite Natsu usually being drunk those times. He wonders what he is talking about, if that was a lifetime ago or merely days before they met, and if he’ll ever get the courage to ask Natsu when he is sober.

He never does.

 

 

*

 

 

“I won’t be here for long,” Hiroto says.

They are sitting at the dock, their hair tussled and messed up; only Natsu has a hoodie on, tugged closely around him. He isn’t looking at him; his eyes reflect the darkened waves below their feet.

“I’m trying to move on.”

Natsu laughs. Leans in. His eyes are on Hiroto’s face, and it looks dark and twisted. Hiroto almost doesn’t want him to look; he doesn’t like himself through Natsu’s eyes.

“There is no moving on,” Natsu mutters. “There is nothing ahead.”

Hiroto refuses to believe him.

 

 

*

 

 

He almost breaks Natsu’s nose on the first night of summer.

It’s hot, and he lights the first mosquito coil that day, flooding the space with that repellent scent. Natsu laughs; and then knocks Hiroto’s breath out of his lungs himself.

 

 

*

 

 

It is a slow night, with lazy patrons and tables that don’t really need to be cleaned. Natsu stares up at him, eyes already glossy from those earlier drinks, and Hiroto scowls, wonders if the other realizes this is his _job_ , temporary or not.

He spots him before he gets close, like an ominous bad omen; that way he carries himself that makes the longhaired stranger bigger and intriguing. Hiroto stares. And doesn’t stop despite the stranger being less than a meter away.

Natsu ignores him, pays no heed to the hand on his shoulder. “Go away,” he grunts.

Hiroto wonders if he had known this longhaired stranger was coming tonight.

Natsu rolls his eyes, scowls, but the stranger is calm and silent, just standing there, waiting. Hiroto gulps; there is nothing else he can do. And Natsu looks at him. He is asking for something Hiroto has no obligation to give. And when he doesn’t, he clicks his tongue in annoyance.

As he stands up, Hiroto is tempted to tell him to pay first, but he bites his tongue. Instead, he observes them discreetly. How they talk for a while, how the music distracts Natsu, and how the stranger stays there, observing, looking at him with something akin to nostalgia and longing.

Hiroto can’t feel it, Natsu’s song. In the dark distance of the bar, their connection flickers and dies.

Somewhere in his mind, he blames the longhaired stranger for muting Natsu that night.

 

 

*

 

 

There is static in the world, and Natsu rages. It confuses him, and Hiroto almost wants to reach out and explain the mute gaps to him.

 

(He isn’t sure he can)

 

*

 

 

Once, they kiss above the bar, when Hiroto lets Natsu stay inside the club only because they are alone and it’s his turn to close. Natsu pulls him closer, asks him, “Stay by my side,” but he isn’t looking at him. Hiroto can’t reply, can’t answer for whomever Natsu is seeing.

 

 

*

 

 

Sometimes Hiroto feels as if he were Natsu’s.

Other times, Natsu is so far away it is hard to hold him, reach some sort of materialized form of him. But then Natsu would say _us_ , and _we_ , and they are one unit moving in that reality under Natsu’s grasp, the one he is talking to him from, so fickle and distorted. Underwater, Hiroto thinks. _Natsu_ , who is not different from this place, from the chords of the guitar when he sings a song on the dimly lit stage, and somehow vanishes inside the smoke-filled walls where Hiroto is undoubtedly just another part of the puzzle Natsu is trying to piece together. Those times, Hiroto is Natsu’s. The problem with Natsu’s reality is that it diverges from Hiroto’s in ways he can neither grasp nor understand. 

 

 

*

 

 

Never mind the white has turned into a palette full of blue hues and smoky greys.

 

 

*

 

 

Hiroto crouches near a pile of empty bottles, tugs his jacket closer. It is cold outside. Clouds loom dark with a rain omen; he can feel it in his bones.

When the door creaks open, Hiroto doesn’t turn around. His break has just started.

“Ah, found you.”

Natsu walks closer, slumps next to him. He doesn’t speak; it has been long since he has concerned himself with questions. Most of the times, Natsu doesn’t have the answers.

Their elbows are pressed together. It would be sort of intimate if they weren’t them, but they are and it is not. It is only normal and comfortable, and it warms Hiroto’s entire arm despite the chilly coldness that has been creeping under his clothes.

“I like it,” Natsu mutters, cigarette dangling from his lips. Hiroto doesn’t turn to him; he has learned not to look at him when he is this silent. They are both looking out to the end of the alley, where a metallic fence separates them from the small dock on the other side.

The breeze carries a salty scent.

“The sound of the waves.”

Hiroto likes it as well. It reminds him of home; of a houseboat at the back of a small mechanic shop, and a tiny boat that sways with the tiniest waves, of cigarette butts and empty bottles of beer; of a tiny bright light waving in his hand.

It reminds him of Natsu too.

 

 

*

 

 

“Who are you?” Natsu asks him, countless times. “Who are you?” he asks now, standing behind him by the dock, a shadow cast where Hiroto is sitting with his legs dangling over the edge.

Hiroto doesn’t reply. He isn’t sure what Natsu is asking.

“Who are we?” Natsu asks, his words pressing into the wind. Somehow, they become heavier then, and Hiroto sighs, shaking his hair back and falling back to lie on the dirty concrete. The sound of the waves lulls him under the soft dying rays of the afternoon.

Natsu’s words aren’t as heavy now, floating above him, but not really touching him. They cast whimsical shadows on his face, and Hiroto almost wants to reach out and touch them, see if they dissolve when his fingertip swirls them around.

Then Natsu sits beside him, taps his fingers on Hiroto’s knee, and Hiroto can almost listen to the soft mellow tune that is playing on top of the denim.

“I wrote something,” Natsu says.

It is a new song he sings now.

And as Natsu’s voice fills the space between them, it echoes inside Hiroto with the most delicately thin threads, spinning gently, weaving warm waves of light and shade, settling deep within him. It is not late.

Not anymore.

 

 

**Fin**


End file.
